


Past/Present

by Crowgirl, potteralda, romachebella



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Backstory, Continuity Is My Bitch, Drinking, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Feels, Hey, Intercrural Sex, It Might Have Happened, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteralda/pseuds/potteralda, https://archiveofourown.org/users/romachebella/pseuds/romachebella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘’m Dean.’<br/>‘My name is...Castiel.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past/Present

**Heaven, 2008**

  


‘You just go to Hell and get me Michael’s vessel,’ Zachariah says and vanishes. 

It isn’t an entirely unexpected order -- but Hell means Dean Winchester and Hell means rescuing a soul. And that’s something Castiel hasn’t done before. 

The war is coming, he knows that, and Michael’s vessel is of critical importance. He’s known that since he was first given charge over Dean Winchester but, honestly, the human hasn’t required a lot of looking after. It isn’t as though he’s led a safe life, but he seems to have something of a genius for survival. 

Still -- Castiel is nothing if not a completist and, before descending, he considers what he knows about Dean. There are no surprises. More or less for the sake of proving to himself how well he has done his job, he widens his search, roaming through the materials on Sam and John Winchester as well. Mary Winchester has been dead for too long to be of immediate importance. 

There’s the half-brother, of course, but he thinks that’s too distant to be a problem now. It’s not like the boys had kept in touch with him -- or even kept him alive, for that matter. 

But if Castiel was in the habit of suspecting his superiors, he would wonder why no-one had seen fit to tell him that John Winchester was Michael’s original, true vessel. The son was a last-minute substitute for a father who had managed to get himself killed. 

Now Dean has gone the same way as his father and for much the same reason. 

Castiel frowns and opens his eyes. There’s something here, a pattern, a repetition that makes him uneasy. 

* * *

**Earth, 2006**

When he drops into the junkyard, the first thing he realises is how quiet it is. The Novaks’ house had been silent, too, but it was the middle of the night there. Here, it was only late afternoon, the sun not even set. The air is hot and dry and sweet-smelling, with a faint tinge of metal and rubber. There are rows and piles and stacks of cars and car parts all around him, making the place more like a maze than anything else.

He shrugs, takes a moment to locate Dean, and starts to walk. It will be a good exercise in getting used to his vessel.

  


Dean is walking around the hulk of what was once a sleekly black car. Now it’s twisted and torn, paint scraped off in long streaks. Glass and dry grass crunching under his boots.

Castiel stays out of Dean’s sight, back in the shadows of a pile of wrecks.

Dean reaches out and runs his hand along the twisted body of the car, his expression unreadable. He walks around the front of the car, out of Castiel’s immediate sight, and when he comes back around, he has a long metal bar in one hand. Castiel assumes he’s about to start working on the car in some fashion until, without changing expression, Dean takes a batter’s stance and slams the bar into the remaining glass of the back door, splintering it and sending shards flying around his shoulders.

He makes his way around the car methodically, breaking all the remaining glass and coming very close to breaking the trunk in half. He’s aiming a blow at one of the side panels when a tall young man comes running from between the rows of cars in the direction of the house and grabs his wrist, keeping him from taking the last swing.

Dean resists, tries to pull free, then abruptly gives up, letting go so quickly that the other young man -- Sam, Castiel reminds himself, Sam -- stumbles backwards a step. Sam drops the bar and says something to Dean -- Castiel isn’t close enough to hear what it is, but it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to guess. 

Dean has his back to Castiel but he’s shaking his head, clearly arguing against whatever Sam’s saying. Without warning, he drops to his knees, as cleanly as if the ground had simply been yanked from under him. He slams a fist into the side panel of the car and yells something at Sam; from Castiel’s vantage point, it’s just a hash of noise, but Sam kneels down, takes Dean by the shoulders, and half-shakes, half-hugs him until Dean is quiet again. 

The brothers talk for a few minutes and then there’s a moment of silence before Sam pushes himself to his feet and turns back towards the house. He hesitates just before he steps back into the aisle of cars and Castiel thinks he will turn back to his brother -- but he doesn’t.

Dean stays where he is, folded in on himself, and Castiel debates whether or not to speak to him. Before he can decide, Dean shoves himself to his feet, gives the wreck of the car a disgusted, miserable look and strides away towards the road.

After a moment, Castiel hears the sound of a car door open and slam shut, then the throaty roar of a disused engine.

  


When Dean pulls the car in the parking area and kills the engine, Castiel drops after him, this time staying carefully invisible.

The sign by the roadside -- large and garish and handpainted -- says Travis’s and Castiel wonders what that means. Is this someone Dean knows? A friend of his? 

Carefully out of sight of the road, Castiel allows himself to come to earth and walk towards the -- whatever it is. Dean hasn’t gotten out of the car and, through the smeary rear windshield, Castiel can see him sitting still, head on the steering wheel. 

_I can wait,_ he thinks, just as Dean raises his head, swipes a dirty hand over his face, then gets out, slamming the car door. Castiel follows him at a distance, letting a few minutes elapse between Dean going into the building and following him.

  


Inside is dark, cool and faintly smoke-scented. It’s a single large room with a tall counter along the back wall. There are two wide windows, one to either side of the door, but there are blinds drawn over each, only slightly cracked to let in afternoon sun. Most of the light in the place comes from a fluorescent strip above the counter and then neon signs hung rather haphazardly along the walls.

Dean sits by the counter and talks to the man behind it. The man listens, nods, then pours a glass of something dark amber. He slides it across the counter to Dean who empties it without a pause. He grimaces, shakes his head, then pushes the glass back. The man fills it again, Dean empties it, again.

Castiel walks over to the counter and takes a seat at a stool one over from Dean. He’s close enough that he can smell the alcoholic burn of the amber stuff -- whiskey, he thinks, probably -- and the cleaning fluid on the rag the man -- the bartender, he reminds himself -- is using to clean down the far end of the counter -- bar, that’s what those long counters are called. 

Under the chemical tang, though, is something unfamiliar, like warm earth cut with metal and salt. 

‘Hey, man, what’cha want?’

Castiel looks up at the bartender, a tall, heavyset man who looks tired. _Long nights,_ Castiel thinks, _too much coffee, too little money._ ‘Water, please.’

The man shrugs. ‘You got it.’

  


Someone slides onto a stool near him but he doesn’t say anything or do anything, so Dean ignores him.

Dean stares into the bottom of the empty shot glass, then raps it sharply on the bar. Travis -- good guy, Travis; Dean should remember not to spend too much time around him -- refills the glass. ‘Just -- leave the bottle, man, okay?’

Travis takes his hand off the bottle and leans on the bar. ‘You know the rules, Winchester.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know the rules---’ Dean fumbles his wallet out and slaps down a twenty. ‘That cover it?’

‘For you? Yeah.’ The bill disappears into the fold of Travis’ dirty black apron.

‘Thanks.’

The third shot goes down with no particular feeling. The fourth he pours and looks at for a few minutes. He can feel the slightly hot feeling at the back of his eyes -- either he’s going to cry or the whiskey’s kicking in. He scrubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, then glances down the bar. ‘Hey, buddy, pass the peanuts?’

The dark-haired man looks at him, head slightly tilted as though he doesn’t understand what Dean said.

Shit. He hadn’t had that much yet. Dean licks his lips carefully, tests out the tip of his tongue against the inside of his teeth once or twice and tries again. ‘The peanuts? Mind passing ‘em this way?’ No, he’s pretty sure he’s not slurring words but the man does nothing. ‘Hey --’ Dean waves his hand in front of the guy’s face, snapping his fingers. The man blinks and refocuses bright blue eyes on him. 

‘Yeah, hey, hi, welcome to Earth, man. The peanuts?’

‘I do not know what you mean.’ The man’s voice is low, husky, almost a little rough as though he smokes or has the remains of a cough and Dean stamps on the tiny flicker of interest in the back of his mind.

‘The bowl?’ Dean points. ‘That one there? Pass it this way?’

The man follows Dean’s gesture and slides the chintzy wooden bowl down towards him.

‘Thanks, man.’ Before he can stop himself, Dean’s stretched out a hand: ‘’m Dean.’ Christ, he could slap himself. What the hell is he doing? Whiskey always hits him like this, makes him chatty and stupid and--- well, whatever. What-the fuck-ever. Fuck it. How can this day get worse, right?

The man looks at his outstretched hand for a minute and, just as Dean is about to pull back with some wisecrack about not doing anything that hurts too much, he puts out his own hand and clasps Dean’s. ‘My name is...Castiel.’

‘Whoa.’ Dean grips tight for a minute then lets go. ‘Your parents really hated you, huh?’

‘I -- do not think so, no.’ He looks slightly bewildered again and Dean shakes his head, cracking a peanut open between his palm and the bartop.

‘Doesn’t matter, man. Just -- bad day, yeah?’

‘You look as though you have had a bad day, yes.’ 

It sounds way better in Castiel’s cool, even tones and Dean shrugs, popping the nut into his mouth and crunching it. ‘Yeah, no shit.’ He flattens the shell against the bar and adds, ‘I’ve had better fucking months, to be honest.’

‘Yes?’ Castiel’s voice is neither curious nor disinterested and Dean glances up to find those blue eyes on him again. Despite the heat of the late summer day, this guy’s wearing a suit and one of those long raincoats rich guys wear -- like a businessman or something. It’s got a name -- it’s a ….something -- something. Sam would know. What the hell is he doing here anyway? This is hardly the kind of place guys dressed like that go to drink.

‘Yeah, well, it -- long story. What brings you here anyway?’ He takes a sip of the whiskey, relishing the burn on his tongue. This is the stuff to kill the pain all right.

‘I...dropped in.’ Castiel glances around the room. ‘It seemed an interesting place.’

‘Yeah?’ Dean mirrors his glance and he sees nothing particularly interesting: Travis working his way through scrubbing up the tables before the regulars start trickling in after dinner; a couple of the local lushes making their way through a cheap pitcher in the corner; the jukebox dim and silent in the corner. ‘You must not get out a lot.’

‘I do not.’

_Oh._ Dean revises his previous estimate: not lost, slumming. That puts a whole different look on the thing. ‘Have a drink?’ He tilts the neck of the bottle towards Castiel.

Castiel looks at it consideringly for a minute, then pushes his glass of water towards Dean.

‘Nah, that’s not how we do it--’ Dean picks up the glass and leans across the bar, dumps more than half the water down the sink, then tops it off with whiskey. ‘Like that.’

Castiel picks up the glass, sniffs at it, and blinks at Dean. ‘Like that?’

Dean nods firmly, taking another mouthful from his own glass. ‘’zactly like that.’

Castiel studies the glass for a minute then, before Dean can say anything, downs it on two swallows. He swallows the last of it, gasps slightly, turns white, then pink, then gasps again. When he speaks, his voice sounds like someone’s just punched the wind out of him. ‘That is -- quite the way to do it.’

Dean snorts. ‘Hurts less the second time.’ He pours out another shot for himself, then one for Castiel, and clinks their glasses together. ‘To godawful days, huh?’ 

‘I have not had a day like that,’ Castiel says carefully, picking up his glass.

‘Yeah, well, I have. And you haven’t had a _good_ day or you wouldn’t be here.’ Dean drops the cap back on the bottle. He’s got enough money for another two but -- there’s the slight problem of getting his drunk ass back home. Bobby’d come get him, he knows that, but not without some silence on the way home he’d really rather avoid. And he’s pretty sure this dude isn’t looking to hook up but a couple more shots and Dean might be. 

‘Would I not?’ Castiel takes a small sip of the whiskey this time and puts the glass back down. 

‘Hell, _no-one_ comes here if they’ve had a good day!’ Or if they’re looking for something. After all, this is where he met Matt back in the day -- but at least Dean’s bought the first drink this time ‘round.

‘What made your day so bad?’

‘My--’ Dean bites back the words, then decides, what the hell. The whiskey’s a warm, strong burn in his stomach and he’s starting to feel that chatty, careless stage of drunkenness coming on. ‘My dad died. Just -- not long ago.’

Castiel says nothing but Dean imagines he can feel those blue eyes on him so he keeps his own eyes fixed on the shot glass in front of him, turning it between his fingertips. ‘And -- see, he...I kinda inherited his car? Awhile back. And-- and it--y’know what?’ He looks up at Castiel suddenly, grinning in a way he can feel pulling his cheeks tight. ‘Fuck it. You don’t care. I don’t care. Lets just drink.’

Castiel inclines his head slowly, but as Dean tilts his head back to take the shot, he hears Castiel say, ‘I do not believe you do not care.’

‘Oh? What gives you that idea?’ Dean drops the shot glass on the bar with slightly more force than necessary and spins to face Castiel.

‘You are angry. If you did not care, you would not be angry.’ Castiel taps the side of his glass. ‘And you would not be filling yourself with this.’

‘Don’t like whiskey?’ Dean gestures to the shelves behind the bar. ‘Got anything you could want here: vodka, tequila, bourbon -- what’s your poison?’

  


Castiel looks at the rows of bottles and then back at Dean. Hurt, shame, misery are practically pouring off of the man and Castiel is losing track of why he came down here in the first place. 

What was the point of this exercise? Background research? He already knows everything he _could_ know about Dean Winchester.

‘Hey, Travis--’ Dean slaps the bar and the bulky man in the black apron comes slowly up from where he had been polishing glasses at the far end.

‘Y’still got half a bottle, Winchester.’

‘’s’not for me -- set my buddy up, okay?’ Dean waves to Castiel.

Travis shrugs. ‘What can I get you?’

Before Castiel can say anything, Dean goes on: ‘Try him out with some vodka. Lets see how that goes down.’

There’s a glass of clear, slightly oily looking liquid in front of Castiel a moment later and he gives Dean a quizzical look.

‘You get that inside you--’ Dean takes another mouthful of whiskey, swallows, and adds, ‘--and you get one free question. Anything you want to know, I’ll tell you.’

Travis shakes his head and wanders back down the bar again, crouching down to busy himself with some cardboard boxes near the cash register.

One question. Castiel studies the glass. One question. He lifts the glass, sniffs the liquor doubtfully, and takes a mouthful.

‘And if you’re gonna ask if I think you’re hot, save your question.’ Dean’s voice is low and throaty in Castiel’s ear and he nearly chokes. He splutters through the last mouthful and just barely manages to set the glass down.

Dean has his head tilted on one side, watching Cas thoughtfully. ‘I mean, yeah, I’m gettin’ pretty well on towards hammered here but --’ He stops, shrugs, shakes his head firmly. ‘Anyway -- y’took your medicine. What’s y’r question?’

‘What happened to your father?’

Dean snorts, rolls his eyes, turns forward again, and rests his elbows on the bar. ‘Well, see, he made a deal with the devil. Well, not with _the_ devil -- with _a_ devil. And wouldn’t’cha know it: the little yellow-eyed fucker gypped him. Let him think he got away and then--’ Dean slams his hand down on the bar. ‘Tried to fuckin’ get all three of us. Killed my dad, nearly killed me, then made my dad make a deal to keep me alive. So -- great, I’m alive, Dad’s dead, my car’s a fuckin’ wreck, and my brother’s gonna go off the goddamned deep end.’

‘Dean--’

Dean shoots him a sharp, fairly sober look. ‘Now you think I’m nuts.’ He shrugs, turns back to his glass, and pours himself another shot. ‘Y’re still hot but -- yeah, I don’t blame you. I’m nuts -- whatever. Better than believing the world’s full of fucking demons, that’s for damned sure.’

‘I _do_ believe you.’

Dean looks over at him again and shakes his head. ‘Then you snuck another couple drinks while I wasn’t lookin’.’

‘No--’ Castiel reaches out and puts a hand on Dean’s arm before he realises that this is an odd thing to do. ‘I believe you.’

‘Why?’ Dean leans back on his stool, turning back towards Castiel, stretching lazily backwards, propping an elbow on the edge of the bar. ‘You the trustin’ type?’

Castiel hesitates. The vodka is making an odd buzz in his head and he is no longer quite sure what _type_ he is. He knows he believes Dean because Dean is correct. The yellow-eyed demon was a cheat, a firm believer in the loaded dice and the stacked deck. ‘Something like that -- happened to someone in my family.’

‘Did it.’ Dean’s voice is flat. ‘You knew my dad? That why you’re followin’ me around?’

‘I -- in a way, yes. But I am not following you. I -- wanted to meet you.’

‘Yeah? Why?’ Dean’s hand is sliding to the back of his waistband and Castiel knows he has a knife tucked there. 

‘I know something about demons. And angels.’

Dean snorts. ‘No such thing as angels.’

‘There are.’

‘Look, buddy, I might be nuts? I mean, ‘m _not_ but I might be but--’ Dean pauses, blinks. ‘Anyway. No such thing as angels.’

‘I am sorry you are in such…pain.’ Castiel reaches out and presses his hand against Dean’s shoulder, against the ripped sleeve of his t-shirt. ‘About your father.’

‘Yeah?’ Dean’s face twists for a minute, then he swallows hard, and the expression is gone. ‘Think maybe you can help me with that?’

‘In what way?’

  


Dean studies Castiel’s face for a minute, then pulls out his wallet and tosses another twenty on the bar. ‘Thanks, Trav. Be seein’ you.’

‘Keep yourself in one piece, Winchester.’

‘Yeah. I’ll try.’ Dean screws the cap on the bottle and slips down off the barstool. He wavers for a brief moment, then shakes his head and stands steady. ‘C’mon.’ He holds out a hand to Castiel.

The other man stares at it for a minute, head slightly tilted, then slips his fingers into Dean’s palm. They’re a light weight, warm against his skin.

The last rays of the dying sun strike bright across the dusty parking lot and Dean winces, shading his eyes with his arm. ‘Jesus -- who made it so bright. Okay-- c’mon, over here.’ He fumbles the keys out of his pocket.

‘Dean -- I do not believe you should be driving.’

‘Here, then. You do it.’ Dean tosses Castiel the keys and, keeping one hand on the car, crosses to the passenger door.

By the time he gets there, Castiel has the doors unlocked and the engine running. 

‘Keep going straight. There’s gonna be a left-hand turn onto a dirt road. Take that.’ Dean gestures with the bottle then, remembering, tucks it down between his legs so no passing cop can see it. The solidity of the bottle nudges against his dick and he nearly jerks back -- but it feels -- kinda good, so he leaves it there. Hey, he’s not gonna start lyin’ to himself about what this is. It isn’t even as dignified as a booty call. This, right here? This is a bar pick-up. He’s gonna get himself laid if it’s the last thing he does and the way things are rollin’ around here, it just might be. But, whatever: the guy’s here, he’s cute, Dean’s 95% sure he’s into it -- that’s good enough.

Castiel takes the car onto the dirt road slowly, tests it for a few yards, before gunning the engine up to something a little more respectable. There’s nothing but fields -- flat, grassy, dry-smelling -- on either side, and Dean rolls down his window, leaning back into his seat.

‘Is there another turn?’

‘Nah. Just keep goin’. You’ll know when to stop.’

  


As it turns out, it is not so much knowing when to stop as running out of road. The dirt strip gets broader, fades into grass, and dead-ends gently into a thick, rustling belt of brush and trees. 

‘There you go.’ Dean unscrews the bottle cap, takes a quick drink, and tilts the bottle towards Castiel.

Castiel shakes his head. ‘Why are we here, Dean?’ He should know the answer to that. This trip was supposed to give him answers -- answers about the Winchesters and their self-sacrificial habits, answers about Michael’s vessel, answers about the war -- not end him up in a worn-out car at the edge of what is probably some kind of watershed too small to be a river trading drinks from a bottle of cheap whiskey.

Yet -- that is where he is. There is no way around that.

‘Bar was gettin’ a little crowded.’ Dean takes another drink, then knees the door open and gets out, leaving the bottle on his seat.

‘Crowded?’ Castiel gets out, too. ‘There were a dozen people there.’

‘Yeah. Crowded.’ Dean comes around the front bumper of the car and, before Castiel can do more than close the door, Dean is stepping against him, pushing him back against the door, oil-smudged hands on either side of his hips gripping the edge of the rolled-down window. 

Castiel opens his mouth to ask again -- then shuts it. This close, he can smell whiskey, engine grease, tin, soap, blood, and that sweet metal and salt smell from before. He can see the threads coming out of the worn collar of Dean’s t-shirt, lying against his neck, dark grey against the bronze of his skin. 

‘So all you gotta do is say.’ Dean’s voice is soft again and Castiel feels himself shiver although he is not cold. ‘Just -- tell me you’re not into this and -- we’re good. ‘ll get you back to Travis’ or wherever you’re goin’ -- get you on your way, no harm, no foul.’

‘I do not--’

‘But you gotta say _now.’_

 _Say what?_ Castiel can feel Dean pressing closer -- then pulling himself back, leaving a few inches of space between their bodies that, irrationally, he does not like. He wants to reach out and pull Dean _back_ and why should he want to do that?

If he does this -- this -- _whatever_ it is that Dean wants him to do -- and how bad can it be? Dean is not a cruel man -- will that make his job easier in the future? He should take all chances to learn how Dean’s mind works -- the more he knows, the more effective he can be. 

‘I am not...saying.’ Castiel copies Dean’s inflection as carefully as he can.

‘Yeah?’ Dean tilts his head, eyes shining in the last full beams of sunlight. ‘Good. That’s...that’s good.’

The next thing Castiel realizes is that Dean’s fingertips are tracing over the side of his face, over his cheekbone, dragging quickly over his lips and chin, down his throat-- He has no idea what this is in aid of, but his vessel is abruptly telling him all kinds of things he has never experienced before: _heat tingle shiver more_

Dean is studying his face, one hand still on the car door, the other over Castiel’s collarbone, his thumb stroking gently over the arch of bone. ‘Not from around here, huh?’

Castiel shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Mmm.’ Dean presses his thumb over Castiel’s lips. ‘Haven’t done this in ’while m’self but -- pretty sure we can have a good time.’

  


What the hell is he saying? Whiskey is pulling words out of Dean’s mouth that he does _not_ mean to say. What the fuck does he care if it’s good for this guy or not? Yeah, okay, there’s the base-level “it’s more fun if everyone has fun,” but seriously, Dean’s in this for the fuck, not the lasting emotional connection. He wants a little pain and he wants a lot of pleasure and that’s about it. Castiel is looking at him funny now and Dean can’t blame him but he doesn’t really feel like getting caught in a whole conversation about this right now. 

Instead, he ducks forward and licks over Castiel’s bottom lip, tasting the slight chemical sweetness of the vodka and what he’d swear is a faint aftertaste of mouthwash. Mint. That cheap super-sweet stuff that comes in the giant bottles. But who the hell brushes their teeth before heading out to a dive? 

Castiel doesn’t move, doesn’t press forward or pull back and Dean is starting to feel like the world’s biggest semi-drunken asshole. ‘You sure you don’t want to call this?’

  


Castiel can feel Dean’s breath on his face, smell the sharpness of the cheap whiskey. He can also hear the uncertainty in Dean’s voice and, although he is not really sure what is meant to be happening here, he does not like that sound. 

There is no reason he should dislike the sound -- Dean’s certainty is only important in terms of a single thing but-- No. He shuts off that line of thought. Wherever those thoughts are trying to take him, he has already decided to ignore them.

Instead he presses forward tentatively, hoping that he is doing the right thing when his lips bump Dean’s.

Dean’s fingers tighten on his shoulder and, for a moment, Castiel is afraid he will not be able to breathe because Dean’s mouth comes down over his. But -- oddly, the thought is not as frightening as he feels it should be and, before he can start to panic, he realises two things. 

One is that he can breathe perfectly well through his nose -- except for being able to smell Dean’s skin and that makes him want to pause everything else. 

The other is that Dean’s mouth is open, quick, sliding over his, nipping and smoothing, tongue slicking over his teeth and he can _taste_ Dean--

  


‘Hey, hey--’ Dean pulls back, a little out of breath and finds himself cupping a hand against Castiel’s cheek. The other man is breathing so hard it almost sounds like he’s sobbing and that isn’t what Dean had in mind. ‘You okay?’

‘I am -- I am very well.’ Castiel’s voice is a rough whisper and it occurs to Dean for the first time that maybe this isn’t quite what he thought it was.

‘Do -- look, man, I’m not --’ Fuck, he wishes he’d kept hold of the bottle of whiskey. But -- maybe it was better he hadn’t. That had been why shit went south with Matt after all and, damn, does he _not_ want to think about that right now but there it is: once thought of, impossible to forget. 

  


Castiel can hear the uncertainty in Dean’s voice, knows that he’s a moment or two away from pulling back, and he does not want that but does not know how to stop it. 

  


Matt had taken the lead and Dean hadn’t argued. He put it down to whiskey, to being a kid -- to any number of things, but the answer was honestly that Matt had been hot and Dean hadn’t wanted to say no. And then Matt took off and left him in the motel room, naked except for his socks and-- fuck, Dean does not want to be that asshole.

‘Cas --’ He blinks and tries to read the expression in front of him. ‘If this isn’t-- I mean--’ He tries a grin and knocks his knuckles against Castiel’s upper arm. ‘You’re like a statue.’

  


Castiel simply opens his mouth and lets whatever words get there first come out. ‘May I kiss you again?’ 

Dean stares at him for a long minute, one hand on his shoulder, the other resting on his collarbone. Castiel can practically see the debate going on behind his eyes and he does not know how to explain that he wants this -- whatever this is, wherever it is going, he _wants_ it. His mouth is dry and his muscles are tight with wanting it. 

Wanting something is an unfamiliar feeling and he does not think he can be blamed for not recognizing it or knowing what to do with it. The back of his throat is dry -- but that could be from the alcohol or the warmth of the dying day. His hands are tingling and his muscles are tight -- but that could be exhaustion in Jimmy’s body or, again, the alcohol. 

But his hands stop twitching when he puts them on Dean’s waist and his mouth stops feeling dry when he sees Dean lick his lips.

‘I’m...I’m clean if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Dean’s voice is husky and the tone makes it clear that this is an offer, an out: Castiel can walk away if he wants to.

‘I am not worried.’ And Dean is far from clean: by any scale of measurement, he is in dire need of a shower and a change of clothes. But dirt is hardly the worst thing in the world.

Unsure how he can prove himself, Castiel mimics Dean’s gesture from earlier, sliding his thumb along the line of Dean’s jaw and under the soft curve of his lower lip. It is a fascinating feeling: Dean’s skin is warm, slightly rough where stubble is starting to come out, and the lower edge of his lip is dry, as though he has been worrying at it with teeth or tongue. 

Whatever internal debate Dean is having, he is staring into Castiel’s face as though some universal secret is written there and if he can just stare _hard_ enough, he will find it. His lips move slightly for a second and he makes a tiny shrugging motion as if answering a question Castiel has not asked. Then his mouth quirks up in a grin and, before Castiel can move or say anything, Dean’s hand smooths down over his hip and molds itself between Castiel’s legs. 

Castiel gasps, fingers digging into Dean’s side. This -- was not what he had been expecting. The touch of Dean’s palm transforms the pleasant warm tingle in his extremities into something that feels like a sharp, hot _bolt_ from his hips to his chest -- it feels hot, sharp, wet -- almost like a wound but there is no pain. For a minute, it is a toss-up whether he pulls back or pushes forward but then Dean’s fingers move, pressing cloth tight around him and _pulling,_ just slightly, and the decision is no longer consciously Castiel’s to make. 

His hips jerk forward without his intending them to and he is pressing himself bodily against Dean as though shielding him from something -- or hoping that Dean will shield him. He is certain that nothing -- _nothing_ \-- has felt better than being pressed against this man from knee to shoulder.

He hears Dean chuckle in his ear and the hand at his crotch _goes away._ He wants to protest but bites back the words.

  


‘Easy, tiger.’ Dean slides his hand back up to Castiel’s waist, fighting the instinct simply to rip open his belt, yank both their pants down, and go for it. This could -- should -- be better than that. Better than what he’d done with Matt, anyway. ‘We’ve got time.’

There’s a ruffling sound in the tall grass at Dean’s back and a cool breeze sweeps past them. Dean feels Castiel shiver although he doesn’t think the other man notices. Still, it gives him an idea.

‘C’mon--’ He makes a long arm past Cas through the window and yanks out the old blanket Bobby had tossed back there after an oil change. It was stained and smelled a little funky but it was better than nothing.

He grabs Castiel’s hand and leads him past the front bumper of the car, past the line of tall trees and through a scatter of scrub brush that masks a wide trickle of water, too wide to be a stream, too narrow to be a river, from the field. The trees and the scrub make a natural shield and Dean flaps the blanket open over a reasonably flat-looking piece of ground between the roots of a wide-trunked maple. 

Castiel is looking at the water, calculating the depth for all Dean knows. That’s not what they’re here for anyway.

‘Hey.’ He drops down on the blanket and reaches up to tug at Castiel’s hand.

Castiel looks down at him, then at the blanket, and, before Dean can start to feel self-conscious, stretches out beside him. He lies down neatly, feet together, knees together, hands clasped over his chest, like he’s practiced taking up the least amount of space possible.

Dean leans over him, propping himself up on one elbow and forearm, surprising himself by laying a hand on top of Castiel’s clasped ones, sliding their fingers together. Castiel’s skin is warm, a little rough under his but he knows what his own scarred, calloused palm must feel like. ‘You still okay?’

Castiel nods, his dark hair fanning out slightly at the base of his skull.

Dean wants to touch it, wants to see if it’s as silky as it feels and, so he won’t, ducks down and kisses Cas instead. It’s as good as it was when they were leaning against the car; better, a little, because Dean’s worry that Cas isn’t into this, that he’s going to call a halt any second, is vanishing fast.

Castiel kisses back, not like a professional, not like someone vested in getting a good blowjob out of this later, but like he’s enjoying himself, like he _likes_ touching Dean. Dean can feel warm fingers on the back of his neck, stroking over the feathery short edges of his own hair. Normally he might stop that; it’s not something he does. He’s not big on faking the cuddly stuff, but -- it feels good and Cas is clearly enjoying it, judging from the soft groaning noise he makes low in his throat when he slips his fingers over the curve of Dean’s skull and into his hair. 

That groan sparks something in Dean’s chest but he shoves it down, pushes it away as hard as he can, focuses instead on the growing pressure against his zipper. 

He pulls back a little, stringing light kisses along Castiel’s jawline and down his throat. Castiel groans again and arches back, pushing his hips and shoulders into the ground. Dean takes the hint -- at least, he hopes it’s a hint -- and slips a couple shirt buttons free, sliding his hand inside. There’s no undershirt, just skin and muscle. For someone who almost looks like a strong wind would blow him away, Dean’s feeling some serious definition under his hand. If this were - well, not what it is, he’d want to taste some of that, map it out with tongue and hands. 

But this isn’t anything other than a hookup. Convenient. Easy.

...And way the fuck off schedule at the minute so Dean grabs Castiel’s free hand and guides it up under his own t-shirt, pressing Cas’ fingertips over his nipple.

‘I --’ A shock of color appears in Castiel’s cheeks and he blinks up at Dean. ‘What do you want me to do?’

Rather than explaining, Dean pinches Castiel’s fingertips together around the thick little nub and _squeezes_. A sharp sting of pleasure jolts through him and he bites the inside of his cheek hard to keep from crying out. He’s never explored this taste any further than asking someone to twist his nipples or, once, unexpectedly coming on the spot when a woman raked her nails from his shoulders to his ass, leaving red marks that took a whole day to fade. 

Castiel watches him for a minute, long enough for Dean to think that maybe this is the wrong thing, maybe he should’ve just whipped that zipper down--

And then Castiel rolls on his side, towards Dean, wriggles out of the trenchcoat, and pushes Dean’s t-shirt up. He balances himself with a hand on Dean’s upper hip and he watches himself and Dean watches him tease Dean’s nipple into a tight, dark brown nub. 

Dean’s practically panting, open-mouthed, by the time Castiel slides his other hand up over Dean’s ribs and presses the ball of his thumb over Dean’s other nipple. The mixed sensations of pressure and pulling are enough to make Dean groan, loudly enough that he’s a little embarrassed to hear himself. Before he can think of anything else to do, he drops his head against Castiel’s shoulder, wriggling down a little so that he can hide his face against the hollow of Castiel’s throat and suck a dark red mark onto that pale skin. 

Castiel gasps and goes still for a second and then his mouth -- his fucking _mouth_ \-- is on Dean’s breast, sucking, biting, _tugging_ and Dean is rutting up against Castiel’s thigh, grabbing onto his hip to steady himself like he’s a fucking teenager.

He can feel Cas, too; the other man might not be saying anything, but there’s a thick heaviness against Dean’s hip that is just begging to be explored. Dean pushes open the last couple shirt buttons, giving in to his urge to have his hands, his mouth all over that smooth warm skin. The light has faded so much that he can’t really see, but he can feel and he can hear. Castiel is making soft, throaty noises against his chest and he’s moving, nosing his way along Dean’s breastbone, pressing his lips along the line of muscle between breastbone and rib.

So if this is up to Dean, fine; he can roll with that.

Squirming a little, he worms a hand down between them. Sheer dumb luck means he gets a thumb caught in his zipper and his pinky in Castiel’s and actually manages to get them down at the same time. Reality vs. porn: score one for reality. And, whoa, _fuck,_ that’s bare skin under his hand: hot, damp, naked--

He shudders, foot to head, and the sound that comes out of his throat isn’t something he’d planned. ‘Fuck... _fuck,_ Cas--’

‘What--what is wrong, Dean?’ Castiel sounds slightly dazed, his response coming a little slowly. His palm is an immediate warm weight on Dean’s side and there's no way that should feel so fucking reassuring coming from a goddamned stranger. But he _doesn’t_ feel like a stranger, and how fucked up is _that,_ and this has got to be the whiskey talking; it _has_ to be, because love at first sight is some shit made up by romance novels and Dean Winchester sure as hell isn’t gonna fall for any of that crap.

So he takes a deep breath, bites the inside of his cheek as hard as he can, and palms Castiel’s cock. 

That does it. 

Castiel sucks in his breath and jerks up against Dean’s hand and the hot, heavy curve that nestles into his palm wipes anything else out of Dean’s head. He swipes his thumb over the tip -- cut, okay, that makes them equal -- and then settles the ball of his thumb in the notch just below the head. This time Castiel doesn’t make any sound but he jerks again, trying to push himself against Dean’s fingers.

‘Hold on there, buddy...’ Dean mutters, yanking at the fly of his boxers and trying to catch the waist of his jeans against the ground so he can pull them down without moving.

‘Let me...’ Castiel’s hands are a surprise, nudging his out of the way and carefully pulling boxers and jeans down together so they tangle around Dean’s knees. 

Dean figures that’s it now: one, two, three, everybody finishes, everybody goes home. He slips his hand around Castiel’s length, ready to do his part -- and then Castiel’s hands slide around his back, tugging him forward, pulling them together.

And, yeah, their dicks bump and slide together, and that’s fucking _electric_ like sparks are going up his spine and he can’t stop his hips rutting forward, but he can also feel Castiel’s palms on his back, warm, solid, comfortable in a way they really, really shouldn’t be.

‘Dean...’ Castiel’s voice is more of a breath now and Dean looks up to find dark blue eyes focused down on him, startlingly bright in the steadily dying sunlight. 

‘Cas, I-- I don’t--’ Dean starts, feeling obscurely that he should apologize.

Castiel smiles, cups a hand against Dean’s cheek. ‘You have done nothing wrong.’

‘I -- this -- it isn’t --’ It doesn’t make sense but Castiel nods like it does. ‘I didn’t mean-- I know this isn’t really--’

Two guys do not meet in a bar, fuck in a field, then walk into the sunset to live happily ever after. He gets that -- he _knows_ that. It’s just -- reminding himself of that’s getting a little...hairy.

Castiel nods and bends so their heads are more on a level, pressing his mouth against Dean’s. ‘I know.’

And the thing is? Dean _believes_ him. 

He grabs Castiel’s shoulder and buries his head in the shirt puddled around Castiel’s upper arm for a minute, breathing in the smell of laundry soap, sweat, and a faint spice that seems to come from Castiel’s skin. 

Jesus fuck but this is weird.

‘Dean -- may I--’ Castiel’s fingers are hesitating just below Dean’s navel.

‘Whatever you want...whatever--’ The words vanish in a groan when Castiel cups Dean’s balls, presses them gently in his palm for a minute, then traces the curve of his dick over the arch of his thigh muscle.

Dean slides his own hand down, keeping his face hidden, and bumps the back of his hand against Castiel’s. ‘Here -- try -- like this --’ Gently, he slips the slick head of Castiel’s cock between his own thighs, trapping it there just under his balls, giving Castiel space and pressure to thrust against.

Castiel hesitates for a minute, as if not sure Dean means what he is so. fucking. _obviously._ offering. ‘C’mon -- c’mon, Cas, just -- just go -- it’s okay. I want you to.’

Castiel pushes forward tentatively at first and it’s a long slow slide of warm wetness between Dean’s legs, pushing against the space behind his balls and making him wish he’d stashed lube in the car. Castiel pulls back and slides forward again and the slow steady brush of skin against the underside of his cock is about enough to make Dean’s eyeballs roll back in his head. He wants to reach down and stroke himself off, and he wants this to go on for hours, and he can’t decide which he wants more. He closes his eyes, presses forward to get that tiny last bit of friction out of Castiel’s thigh, and just lets himself feel it. 

He can feel the pull and release of Castiel’s abs and can tell when he hits a particularly sweet spot by the slight hitch in his breathing. Castiel’s hands are still on his back and he can feel his fingers jerk and tighten. He can slide his mouth over Castiel’s nipples without showing his face and he does, pressing the flat of his tongue over the dimpled skin and just -- staying there, waiting until the nipple hardens and pulls together on its own, seeming to answer a vibration of sound deep in Castiel’s chest that barely makes it out of his throat.

‘Dean -- Dean, I --’

‘S’okay, Cas, ‘m’okay.’ And he is -- the pleasure’s a steady, hot wave in his belly and he can ride that for awhile. 

Castiel thrusts harder once, twice, then Dean feels Cas’ hand clap tight on his ass and he stops moving. Just goes still, like someone had suddenly told him he was playing freeze tag. He hasn’t come, so that’s not it.

‘Cas? What’s--Jesus!’ For a minute, he wants to jerk away from the exploring fingertips even though a minute before he’d been thinking wistfully of lube. But fantasy is one thing and reality another and-- Reflexes keep him from yanking away but only just. 

‘It is what you wanted.’ Castiel presses a kiss to his temple, his ear, his cheekbone, his jaw. ‘Let me.’

It’ll hurt. Dean knows it’ll hurt. But after it hurts it’ll feel so _fucking_ good and he wants that, wants it so bad he can taste it. Before he can stop himself, he nods against Castiel’s shoulder.

It barely hurts. Dean doesn’t know how he did it but Cas must’ve had chapstick or hand lotion or something stuck in a pocket and his finger slips inside like they’d been doing this for years.

For a moment, it doesn’t feel like anything and then it feels like _everything._ Dean gasps, chokes on something in his throat, and grinds himself down on Castiel’s hand. He wants to talk, he wants to cry, he wants to tell this total fucking stranger every stupid little thought that’s in his head -- and then Cas slides in a second finger and scissors them slightly, stretching Dean’s body and brushing soft fingertips over his prostate.

‘Jesus -- Jesus _fuck!'_ He tries to say Castiel's name and chokes instead. 'I -- I don’t -- I never -- you--’

‘Sssh.’ Castiel pushes forward between Dean’s legs and Dean can suddenly feel how they’re almost making a circle: his cock against Castiel’s wrist and forearm, Castiel fucking between his thighs, Castiel’s hand against his ass--

‘I can’t -- I _can’t,_ I--’ He can’t do this, he can’t do anything, he can’t fix the car, he can’t fix Sammy, he can’t fix his dad, he can’t--

‘You can, Dean.’ Castiel’s voice is low, slightly breathless. ‘I _know_ you can.’

‘But I _can’t_ \-- you don’t know me -- you don’t know--’ Dean squeezes his eyes shut, knots his fingers in handfuls of Castiel’s shirt, and tries not to cry out when Castiel adds a third finger.

‘Do I seem as though I do not know you?’ 

‘No, _no_ but -- but I don’t know _you!_ Who -- who the fuck _are_ you--’ Dean can hear the sob in his voice.

Castiel thrusts once, twice, three times and Dean feels the tension in his body and the sudden tightness of Castiel’s grip on him. ‘I -- I am...here, Dean...’ Castiel’s voice is a gasp as wetness spreads between them and Dean starts to come. ‘I have always been here.’ 

* * *

**Heaven, 2008**

‘You are still here.’ Zachariah is standing in front of him, curt, faintly exasperated with the failure of everyone around him as he always is.

Castiel closes the book before him and looks up. ‘I am.’

‘Didn’t I give you an order?’

‘You made a request. You are not my commander.’

‘Yeah, well, for the purposes of _this_ I am.’ Zachariah makes a flicking motion with his fingers. ‘So go on. Get on with it.’

He vanishes and Castiel closes his eyes. 

Dean will not remember; Castiel had taken care of that very carefully. 

But Castiel remembers. Will always remember.

**Author's Note:**

> "The Guardian Angel" was a working title for this piece; thus the text on [Romachebella's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/romachebella) _glorious_ artwork.


End file.
